The Hero
by Abisian
Summary: Yall haven't got enough Randleman around here! : A mere continuation of what happened the night Bull gets stuck overnight in a barn. : Bull/NotAnOC


A/N :: The Band of Brothers section is lacking in Bull Randleman. ): I was quite sad to see this. I'm breaking into the Band of Brothers fanfiction world and to be honest, I'm a little nervous. Still, I'll try. (: This takes place in episode four, "Replacements." Randleman stays in Neuen overnight. Anyone remember? Hope so. Read on.

--

I was infatuated with the man from the moment I saw him. I did not know at first whether he was American, German, French .. It didn't matter.

He was a bull of a man; he had my father collared against the barn wall, and my father is not lacking in size.

I inched forward for a closer look, and the man announced that he was American .. an Ally. The guilt at my lack of worry when my interest sprang up ebbed away as he admitted himself to be our ally, and I came to my father's aid more readily.

We were hunched down, out of sight of the windows, when my father and I noticed the thick blood on the man's shoulder. My father was closest, and he reached forward to examine the wound. The American jerked his head, looking over his shoulder. He was fierce, this man, his face scrunched and tight-lipped. He was in pain. My father gestured again toward the wound, and the man gave the slightest nod, turning back away from us. I watched as my father poured alcohol on the wound (offering the soldier some as well, which he refused) and the man hissed .. I wanted to hiss as well. Shrapnel was imbedded into his shoulder, the wound angry and painful. I could barely watch as the American handed my father a bayonet over his shoulder, and then as my father went to work digging the blade into the wound .. loosening the shrapnel .. and then pulling it out. He deposited it on the hay.

I lifted the piece of metal from the straw and peered closely at it. It was covered in blood, and it wasn't until I was looking at it that I realized my hands were shaking. I dropped the shrapnel at the same time that the man jerked away from my father, standing as though alarmed. Then I heard it too; sounds, voices, footsteps near the door of the barn.

The soldier ushered us away, farther into the barn, hiding us from sight. I could not see where he went, but I could see the door of the barn from where my father and I were hidden. I peered around the corner as the barn door opened up, and some German soldiers entered the barn. I peered farther around the corner, but withdrew almost immediately. My father's breathing was labored, though I could tell he was trying to calm himself. I, too, was shaking with fear.

The voices seemed to be fading, and I peered once again around the corner of my stall. There was only one soldier now, and he bent to pick up a bloodstained cloth .. the cloth, I guessed, that my father had used to pad the American's wound. I drew in a deep breath, praying that the soldier did not investigate the source of the fresh blood that was on that cloth .. and then a clattering sound emanated from the wall I was leaning against, and I drew back, my eyes shut tight, my lips pursed.

If the American was caught, it would be my fault ..

The German was shouting, turning around in circles with his gun raised, preparing to shoot. I looked around at him once again, my eyes darting around for the American .. Then I saw the American coming up from behind him, jabbing at him with his bayonet. The German countered, swinging his own gun around .. They fought for only a minute or two. The German was sorely outmatched in hand-to-hand combat. The American was nearly twice his size and obviously much stronger. The scuffle ended with the American pinning the German to the ground, sticking him with the bayonet. It was horrifying, watching the scene before me ..

The American looked up at me and drew in a breath before looking back at the German. He looked almost sorrowful, although I could not fathom why; sad that he had killed? Sad that I had seen him kill? Both were highly improbable. But I could not help wanting to comfort him, whatever the reason for his sadness. Although the victor, he was slumped slightly in defeat; he looked tired; tired of the killing, tired of the war. Or perhaps his wound was irking him more than he let on. These reasons seemed more likely. Still, his massive shoulders seemed lonesome for a pair of arms to be wrapped around them, to be pulled into a comforting hug .. I withdrew to lean against the wall beside my father, listening to the American soldier's footsteps growing closer.

My father and I were ushered out of the barn although I felt much safer inside with the lone American soldier than outside with dozens of Germans. Still, we had no choice but to go; if we were caught there with him, we would be killed as well.

But I would be back.

I waited until my father was asleep and the light rumble of noise outside had subsided slightly. We had managed to sneak back toward our own house after leaving the barn. The Germans had already ransacked our home and had gone on to other buildings, but they had taken any bandages or aid kit materials that we may have had. I had to settle with fetching a pair of scissors from the kitchen and cutting strips of my own bed sheets to take to the American. I was confident he was still in the barn, and confident still that I could make it there undetected.

I swiped a bottle of liquor from the front parlor before making my way outside, opening the door as slowly as possible to minimize the creaking, and not even bothering to close it when I had slipped through. I stuck to the shadows as I ran, bandages, and liquor bottle cradled in my arms. The grass was slick with dew in the early hours of the morning, but I managed not to slip. The barn loomed into view in the slight fog and I looked around, slightly out of breath, as I approached it and eased the barn door open with my elbow.

I was greeted by a sharp shuffling sound, then the audible click of a gun somewhere ahead of me, beneath the window.

"It's me, from earlier," I said. I doubted he could understand me; I didn't know if he knew a language other than English. But surely he could recognize my voice as that of a woman's.

I could faintly see the edge of his outline, so I knew when he lowered his gun. I took a few steps toward him.

"I've brought bandages. I can clean you a little better, give you better padding for your wound." He made no sign of comprehension, or that he heard me at all; he merely continued to look at me. I shifted the bandages and liquor to one arm and gestured with my free hand to his shoulder, and then to the materials I was carrying.

He seemed to understand because he lowered himself stiffly to one knee, holding the barrel of his gun in one hand and bracing himself on the straw floor with the other. Immediately I stepped forward, placing the bottle and bandages on the ground and kneeling as well. I gently lifted the bloodstained cloth my father had used when trying to tend to the wound. It stuck slightly to the dried blood around the edges of the wound, but otherwise blood still seeped from the jagged hole.

I took the stopper out of the bottle of liquor and moistened one of the bandages with it. I forced the bottle into the soldier's hand before dabbing at the wound with the bandage. Wincing and hissing in pain, he lifted the bottle to his lips and tipped his head back, downing a gulp.

He did not drink anymore as I cleaned his wound as best I could. He hardly winced anymore, hardly hissed in pain. I put together two bandages and padded them atop his wound, bunching them under his uniform to keep them in place.

My hands lingered on his shoulder for a few short moments. Despite the shrapnel would, he had strong shoulders. They were broad, thick, muscular. My fingers trailed down his left arm and I found that it, too, was thick and muscular. All Americans must be like this, I decided. They were heroes, certainly, and the man before me was my idea of a hero. They were brave; they were risking their lives to save we who are weak, we who are bonded to them only by words and papers that swear alliance.

I was overcome with a strange wave of emotion, and tears began to leak from my eyes. I bent my head and removed my hands from his body, busying myself instead with collecting the bloodstained bandages and putting the stopper back in the liquor bottle. He must have realized I'd finished tending his wound because as I began wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, he placed his gun on the ground and turned to me. He began whispering to me, and although I could not understand most of what he said, he sounded as though he meant to comfort me. His accent was strange; I'd never heard an American accent like this. It was slow and twangy, nothing like French or German. Still I continued to cry, covering my mouth with my hands to prevent any loud sobs from escaping. I began to babble at him, although I knew he couldn't understand a word I said.

"I'm afraid! I'm so afraid. I want this all to end; this war, the killing, the savageness. Everything! I'm so sick of hearing gunfire even in my dreams. I wish it had never started! I wish it were already over! I wish .. I wish .." I was sobbing silently, my shoulders shaking violently as I cradled my tear-streaked face in my hands. Several moments went by before I felt his fingers gently lifting my face from my hands. I looked up at his eyes through my own blurry ones. The color of his eyes was indiscernible in the darkness, but I knew he was looking at me intently.

His eyebrows worked furiously as he pursed his lips again and again. He seemed to be trying to make up his mind about something.

Then he leaned forward and kissed me. The kiss was chaste, quick. I felt my wet cheek against his for the shortest of moments before he pulled away, looking at me the way he had before. But then he leaned forward and kissed me again.

This kiss was longer and much more fulfilling. It was almost desperate, although I wouldn't dare complain. He tasted faintly of cigars and the liquor he'd gulped down earlier.

It was over much too soon, and when he pulled back again he looked almost sad. I wiped the remaining tears from my face and gathered the soiled bandages together. I supposed he'd kissed me the first time to comfort me, but the second one .. I could only assume he was lonely; he had probably been out of the company of a woman for far too long, and he could not control himself. I was there, vulnerable although all too willing. It only made sense.

I heaved a sigh and looked up at him again. He had moved toward the window, peering out. Then he helped me gather my things and led me toward the door, gun in hand.

"Go," he said. I did not know what the word meant, but I could guess. I turned in the direction of my house and heard him whisper, "Thank you," before easing the door closed. I smiled slightly to myself as I ran, hidden in shadows, toward my house.

The German soldiers would probably be gone by the morning, and I'm sure the American's comrades would come back for him as well. I would have to do something about the dead body hidden in the hay in my father's barn.

The coming day would not be usual by far; but hopefully, with the knowledge that the Allied soldiers were like the one I'd just encountered, the day would be a little bit brighter.

--

A/N :: Cheesy, silly, and probably very, very vague.

Not really into harsh crits, but if you must, you must. Review away.


End file.
